S24 Ep14: NoSleep Podcast S24E14

Water, it gives us life. We are drawn to it.

Yet it holds immense power over us.

“It can bring unspeakable horror to the most familiar places.”

Your morning shower. A tranquil river bank or the endless ocean. It's time to dive deep into the abyss. From the dark waters of the Cape Fear River, Emers yourself in horror as you

brace yourself for the no sleep podcast. [MUSIC] [MUSIC] There's a specific kind of fear that sticks with you. For me, it started at a sleepover when I was about 13 years old.

Somebody put on a VHS tape of pieces of death. And the rumor going around at the time was that it was all real. Not staged, not effects, a documentary. At that age, you don't question it. You just absorb it.

I remember lying awake that night.

“Darren had the ceiling trying to process what I had just seen.”

And wishing I hadn't. If we haven't met before, my name is Mike Delgado. And you might know me from my work here as a voice actor on the no sleep podcast. Not long after that sleepover, I went to see a nightmare on Elm Street in the theaters.

Just came out, brand new. And in hindsight, that was maybe not the best follow-up to faces of death. And that was kind of it for me, at least for a while. Visual horror just didn't sit right. It felt imposed.

Like I was being shown something I couldn't unsee. Yeah. Well, seeing those horror movies as a young and naive pop was its kind of own version of psychological trauma. But around that same time, I found Stephen King. Started with Christine.

It was a Christmas gift and hardback when it first came out.

And then I just sort of kept going. Book after book, after book. And that was a completely different experience. Because with those stories, the horror wasn't being shown to me. It was happening in my head.

I was building it. I was filling in the blanks, making it as intense. Or as restrained as I could handle. Sometimes if I didn't understand what I was reading, I could just keep going. I could be lied over the parts that I had to.

Or really visualize the parts that I really wanted to sit with. And I think that's what's stuck. The idea that the most effective horror for me, anyway, isn't something I was shown. Is something I participate in.

It's something I bring with me. And it's something that can get better at time. I know that reading the stand by Stephen King when I was 15 was a very different experience than when I read it at 30. And then reading it again when I was, "Well, let's just save older, shall we?"

That's part of why I've always loved audio trauma,

especially horror audio trauma. I mean, the first audio drama I ever heard was a cassette of the missed by Stephen King, some of you may know that.

“And I think I was a sophomore in high school when I came out,”

and I just loved it. And I think I loved it because you don't get the full picture. You get just enough. A voice, a moment, a suggestion, a rest of yours. Isn't that incredible?

Your version of this story is always going to be a little different than mine. And sometimes that makes it a lot more personal, and a lot more unsettling. As I've gotten older, that kind of horror has only gotten stronger for me, because the things that scare you change. When I was younger, it was the monsters, the unknown.

But then life fills in some of those blanks for you.

To worry about the people you care about,

to realize that not everything has an explanation, or worse, not everything has a solution. I'm reminded of a line I heard once, that there are about 4,000 weeks in a long life. And at some point you realize that you're already well past the halfway mark.

At least I am. And that kind of thought? That will stick with me for a lot longer.

“It terrifies me more, and it changes the way I think,”

more than anything I'll see in a flasher movie. At least that's for me. My bad mark is demand that could write this stuff out of a story like that. These days I'm a full-time voice actor, which means on any given day I might be recording something like this for no sleep,

or helping train a surgeon on a new technique, or walking someone through how to fuel a super tanker. And I mean it, that's not an exaggeration. That's just Tuesday for a voice actor. And somewhere along the way I found my way to the no sleep podcast.

At the time, it's going back a few years. I was learning audio production and experimenting with storytelling, and I actually produced a full audio version of a story from the no sleep subreddit.

“And then I sent it in completely unprompted to David, and very appropriately it was rejected.”

I kind of wish I still had it, it might be a fun lesson, but more likely I've really glad I don't have it anymore. Cringe humor is not my kind of humor. Anyway, not long after that I was given the chance to be a part of the no sleep podcast or the Halloween episode in Season 4.

And I've been here ever since. Over the years this show has grown, evolved and somehow managed to keep getting better. The production, the performances, the writing, it's consistently impressive.

But what's always stood out to me for the no sleep podcast is the variety.

No two stories feel quite the same. You can go from something deeply psychological to something supernatural, something gory to something very, very real. And to just step aside from that for a moment,

“for me, I think the most rewarding part of being involved in this podcast”

has been hearing from you, the listeners. Because every now and then, and I mean this, someone will say something that really stays with you. They might tell you that a story helped get them through a difficult time, or that listening to the show actually helped them fall asleep when nothing else would.

Or just that, it helped. And that's not something you expect when you start doing this. But it's something that you carry with you once you hear it. And it's a big part of why I keep coming back. On the show this week, we have stories that live in a very specific space.

They're not about monsters in the traditional sense, not really. They're about routine, about control. About the systems we build for ourselves to make sense of the world. And what happens when something inside those systems isn't quite right. Sometimes it's a relationship that feels a little off,

or sometimes it's your own thoughts, turning in directions, you didn't expect. Sometimes it's the sense that you're being watched, or misunderstood, or slowly losing your grip on something you thought was stable. These are the kinds of stories where the horror doesn't come from a single moment. It builds quietly, gradually, until you realize that whatever is wrong,

it's been wrong for a while. And by then it's usually too late to do anything about it. For example, you have a show with a shopkeeper, a business, and at the same time, with the checkout with the world for the best answers. That's right, the checkout with the world for the best answers. The legendary checkout of Shopify is actually on its own website,

which means social media and everywhere. That's the music for your ears. How does it end up with shopping? It can be a real help.

In our first tale, we meet a couple who have settled into a very comfortable routine.

The kind where you know exactly how your partner walks through the door, but they say how they breathe. When something small changes, something that's almost unnoticeable, it's hard to ignore. Because once you start paying attention like that, you tend to see more than you meant to.

And when keeping things in order, starts to matter more than keeping things right,

“you may find yourself practicing a little forbearance.”

Howard was never any good at keeping secrets.

After 12 years of married life, a wife gets to know all the intricate ways that her husband behaves. For example, when Howard arrives home from the office, he always lets out a deep breath when he enters the door. The exhale lasts so long, I wonder if he's going to deflate on the carpet. But naturally, he doesn't. And then he regales me with stories about this and that from work.

If I'm being honest, I have mostly tuned out his ramblings. A business supervisor, while paid well, doesn't have the most captivating tales to tell. I remember bits and pieces. Zurtan names sound familiar. A few events.

But of Howard were to quiz me on the subject. I'd likely fail. Still, I put up a good front. I nod and smile while he talks. I'd time an O to escape my lips at the correct moment to make it seem like I'm paying attention.

It has all become a comfortable routine. But one day that routine was broken. It was a Friday afternoon, and I was tidying myself up after a day of chores. My blonde hair was organized into a soft bob that shaped my face in a presentable manner.

I knew that hair should always be used to accentuate your features.

Not distract from them. My blue skirt and soft sleeve to top were perhaps a little outdated. Although the ensemble had been quite fashionable in 1953. But I thought the outfit's sensible for the day's activities.

“Has I when it want to risk unnecessary blemishes on my better clothes?”

I was in the process of touching up my makeup when Howard came through the door. Our house had a way of carrying sound, and so I paused to listen for his exhale. But it never came. A new image arrived to my mind then. Instead of depleting, I imagined Howard feeling so full of air that he popped.

Christine, dare? Dead room. The sound of his shiny black shoes grew closer as he walked over to me. The house was spacious, thanks to the substantial size of my husband Salary, but the decor was simple and tasteful. While Howard had argued for a flashier presentation with shandleers and statement pieces,

I managed to hold and check his reckless approach to interior design. What was in the house was exactly what we needed. Chairs, tables, sofas, and lights were all placed in reasonable but still appealing locations. Everything was in order, just like it should be. Everything except for Howard.

Oh, it was a long day. He planted a brief kiss on my cheek. I think I'm gonna hit the hay. I turned and gave him a smile. The truth was Howard did not look tired at all.

His straight brown hair was still neatly parted toward the left side of his face. On a bad day, the top of his head tended to resemble the really nature of our carpet. Likewise, the suit and tie that I had picked out for him were still unrinkled on his slender frame. The tie usually didn't make it to the door before being removed. Of course darling, you look exhausted.

My skill as a liar had always outclassed my husbands.

I love you. As he turned to leave, I caught a flash in his expression. In the second that his gaze left mine, I could see a flicker in his eyes. It looked as if a matchstick had been struck in his soul. I'd seen that type of look in him before, and it wasn't something that I took lightly.

The way I said Howard stopped him in his tracks.

“Even it happened to be hiding something from me, would you?”

I don't think I could hide anything from you if I tried. He laughed, but did not turn back to face me. True, but you had tried before. I reached and wrapped my arms around his chest. A hug that was also a cage.

I know that your work can be difficult darling. Life in the normal world is a tricky slope to navigate. Sometimes it can be easy to get lost, but I'm here to guide you.

Are you sure that you are telling me the truth?

I'm sure. No more gennets.

“I could feel his heart beating faster underneath my hands as I spoke her name.”

No more gennets. Good. Slowly, I released him from my grip. While he still did not show his face, I could tell he was relieved. We when it won a repetition of history, would we darling.

I admit there was a part of me that still wanted to trust him. Twelve years of married life has that sort of diminishing effect on one's judgement. I wanted to believe that Howard would listen to me, trust me, stand by my side in all things. Gennets was the one time he hadn't. I caught him with her.

In our bedroom of all places, I burned the sheets after I found out. I would not allow them to sell either rest of the room.

“This type of scandal could threaten our livelihoods, if found out.”

And I refused to allow an act of recklessness to be our undoing. So, I put the matter aside. Let bygones be bygones. But I never forgot. I kept my sights on him, ready and waiting for a slip.

The next few days passed without incident. Howard returned to his routine, and I returned to mine. Since I did not have a job of my own, I made sure to engage in many activities to keep myself busy. In our backyard, I had taken to maintaining a small garden with a few flowers and some birds. But the blueberry bushes were my primary success.

The garden was enclosed by a large stone wall, so that I could have some privacy from the gaze of our neighbors. I was gathering a few blueberries into a small basket, when Howard returned home. Normally, I would be inside to greet him, but he was abnormally early that day. Yet another deviation from our routine, but I could imagine that there was a reasonable explanation. I stood from the ground as he walked out the sliding back door.

His face, as always, lit up when he saw me.

Mine did too, although it was hard to force a smile. He pulled me into a hug. Hmm, gardening. I thought that my current position made that obvious, but I decided to humor him. Yes, darling. The berries should be right soon. Howard's expression turned sour.

I don't know why you choose to grow those things. You know how much I hate them. Why not strawberries? Something sweeter. Less bitter. Strawberries can be bitter too. Not like your blueberries. He chuckled, seemingly pleased with his own comment. However, it must have occurred to him how rude he sounded, because he quickly added.

Of course, I'll eat anything that you make dear. I raised a gloved hand, still dirty from my work, and stroked his cheek. Aren't you a gentleman? I was aware that Howard hated blueberries, the day I bought the seeds at the store. My gardening habit had been taken up a short time after the ordeal with Janet, and I must admit that my husband's best interest was not in my heart.

Although I had forgiven him, there was still a deep urge within me to punish him somehow. I don't believe that I thought much about the act. My hand had simply grabbed the bag and placed it in the cart.

It was instinct. What was not instinct was my choice to always pick the berries early.

I suppose, much like the fruit, I was still a bit bitter. Let me grab the basket for you. As Howard bent down, the collar of his shirt unfolded ever so slightly. A pinpoint's worth of lipstick was smeared across the white fabric. Settle enough in color to be missed, but not red enough to be my own shade.

Suddenly, it seemed as though the sun had become more intense.

“Howard, your home sooner than I expected, everything well at the office?”

Yes, dear, I just decided to take off early. This was not the explanation I hoped for. Darling, I began as a two of us made our way back inside. Do you love me? Howard's face contorted at the question.

That's a peculiar thing to say. Don't you know that I fell in love with you the moment we found each other?

We had found our way to the kitchen and Howard slid the basket onto the table. Yes, dear. This time, the words were dull.

“Do you not like the way I manage things around here? Does it bore you?”

What's with all these questions? Look, I... everything is just so precise now, careful. It feels like I'm walking on egg shells with you. The honesty in his voice was apparent, and I acknowledged his comment with an odd. I see.

The matchstick-like flicker appeared in his eyes as he took a competent stride toward me. It had been a while since he'd been so bold.

Do you never have the urge to simply relax?

Let loose. Do what you want and not worry about what happens next. Doesn't that seem fun? I thought about the stain on his collar. Was that what he considered fun? Without order our lives would fall to pieces, darling? You of all people should be well aware of that.

What?

“The sound of his voice stretched out as if he were suddenly a whining dog.”

I see how you watch me. It's like you're waiting for me to make a mistake. Do you know how that feels? I pushed past him and opened a cabinet. Retrieving a glass jar and placing it on the table. I do not... that seeing how big the company you work for is.

I imagine that I could ask one of your employees. The word employees had a profound effect on my husband's demeanor. His confidence stance were treated into a slouch. And the flicker in his eyes died out. I felt my heart raced at that moment.

I savored his pain as I poured a few blueberries from the basket into the jar.

Dear, I thought we decided never to mention that again.

Yes, we had agreed to never speak about the particulars of the event.

“Howard always seemed so ashamed of the foolish way he handled things.”

This was a part of my forbearance. It was clumsy of me to make that remark, no matter how badly I wanted to. For a moment, I had actually lived life the way my husband wanted. Recklessly. I apologize.

I twisted the lid shut on top of the blueberries. Just give me some space for a while. Give me some time without your eyes on me. I did my best not to stare at the stain on his collar. Instead, I only looked into his eyes.

Trying to find the reason why I chose to remain with him for as long as I had. I will darling. I popped a stray blueberry into my mouth. I trust you. Let it not be said that I wasn't a woman of my word.

For the next few weeks, I turned a blind eye to the strange behaviors of my husband. My comments to him were limited to my occasional OAS during his afterwork conversations, and a few passing remarks.

At first, I believed he enjoyed his freedom from my watchable gaze.

His lender shoulders were more relaxed than usual. And he moved about the house in an oddly leisurely manner. As OE had somehow been released for my control. After a while, though, he grew restless. I found him staring at me whenever I entered the room.

His eyes wide with anticipation. I wondered if Howard wanted me to break my promise. Maybe he missed the attention of my gaze, so now that it was gone. I enjoyed this idea immensely. However, as a days continue to pass, I was disappointed to find that his anticipation dwindled.

He behaved as though all was well, and that nothing was out of the ordinary. I loathed the idea that he didn't need me to guide him. Even more so, I dreaded the idea that this was a true. I maintained my composure. The last thing I wanted was for Howard to see a crack in my resolve.

Then I would be weak, weak like him. I knew that I would have to be subtle when I monitored him. No questions, no unnecessary remarks. My eyes would be my only tool. Immediately, I started to pick up on signs I had unconsciously ignored.

Howard no longer exhaled at the door when he arrived home.

As if great pains had been taken to fix his appearance before he came home. Then there was his hair.

“It had grown to the point where it was far past time for a trip to the barber.”

He knew how much I hated his hair that way. It looked like an unorganized ball of thread. This, combined with everything, all but confirmed my suspicions. But I couldn't let him win. If I accused him, he would simply deny it.

I would see right through his lies, of course. But I wanted proof. I wanted to see him struggle to find an explanation.

I wanted to hear him beg for my forgiveness a second time.

This was a fantasy too enticing not to make come true. Setting the trap was easy. Howard, ever clumsy and unobservant. Believed me when I told him I was going to visit my mother for the weekend. I thought you two didn't speak.

He was right, of course. My mother and I hadn't spoken since a day she died 11 years ago. In his defense, I barely remembered her death myself.

“It was one of those events that seemed important when it happened, but lost all significance over time.”

We want to catch up. The plan was devilishly simple. After saying my farewell, I placed my meticulously packed suitcase in the back of my white catalac and drove away. For the next few hours I drove around the city. Observing the sights that I had seen a thousand times before.

Then, after enough time it passed, I drove back and parked in an alleyway just within view of the house.

My husband, like most men with his disposition, did not take long to make his first move.

I saw his matching catalac pulled out of our driveway and head down the road past my vehicle. The setting sun and dark alley made it so that I had been easily hidden within the shadows. Finally, I stepped out of the car and walked the short distance down the street to my house. I made sure to lock the door back when I slipped inside. Even Howard would notice such a careless mistake.

“The next step of the plan was to conceal myself until the last moment, so that I might catch him in the act.”

Where better to hide than the bedroom I thought. Without any lights on, our home took on a mysterious atmosphere. As I walked down the hall, I couldn't help but wonder how this new Janet would feel about my decor, which he wonder about the person who put everything in its proper place, or which he simply be afraid of the silhouettes in the dark. The bedroom was perhaps our most luxurious room.

A four-poster bed sat above a rug in the center of the space, and was surrounded on either side by a set of nightstands. In the dark, I could still make out the shapes of our dressing cabinets lining the wall. A adjacent to the entrance was a door to a walking closet, where I kept my spare clothes, the spot perfect for hiding. I smiled as I contemplated the idea of taking this room all for myself, once he events of the night were over.

Howard could survive on the couch. However, before I took my hiding place, I made sure to make a few preparations. Carefully, I lifted the bed up just enough so that I could remove the rug from under it. Once I had freed it, I simply slid the tastefully plain thing near the entryway. I did not want whatever guests who would be visiting our bedroom to leave a mess.

And this seemed the easiest way to achieve that. Behind me, I heard the click of the front door opening. Howard had returned sooner than I anticipated. Moving quickly, I slipped into the closet. I heard Howard's voice shuckling from down the hall.

I promise, not a soul will know. Even with a wall between us, I could tell my husband had that flicker in his eye again. I gritted my teeth and forced myself not to come out early. I needed that moment to be perfect. Soon, another voice rang through the silence.

I can't believe we're finally doing this!

You've been teasing me for so long. It was a woman's, moderately young and high-pitched. I wasn't surprised. There's been the case with Janet, too. The two giggled!

Does they made their way inside the bedroom? The fact that I was so close to them was tantalizing. My seeds had been planted, and I was about to enjoy the harvest.

They shuffled closer to the bed.

Yes, how are we? I couldn't contain myself any longer. The sound of the closet door swinging open sent an excited shiver down my spine. I strolled out casually, as though I were simply in the neighborhood. The woman, as I had suspected she would,

let out an ear piercing scream when she saw me, but I wasn't concerned about her. I savered every ounce of the fear that spread across Howard's face, as I stood there with my practice to smile.

“Darling, I think that there's an uninvited guest in our bedroom.”

Howard wavered at the edge of the bed with his hand reaching down his pants pocket. His mouth made the shapes of words, but no noise escaped his lips until he managed to stutter. You said... No, I did not go visit my mother.

It was a lie, darling. It's something which I expect you are familiar with, given our company.

For the first time, I acknowledged my guest.

Above her horrified expression was a curly blonde bob. Much like my own. Her long blue dress was also something that I might wear for a special occasion. She was nearly a perfect replica of me. Just as Janet had been.

I tell you. The new Janet glared at Howard. She wasn't supposed to be here. No, no, no, no, no. I stepped closer.

Please don't take this from me. It's been so long.

“You promised me this when it happened again,”

and I trusted you. I shook my head in a disapproving manner, simply to add salt to the wound. Things were going better than I could have imagined. Look, lady, your husband and I, we...

It was just a one night thing. All right, it was a bad decision. The new Janet took a small step away from me. I ignored her, reaching out my hand to Howard. I know you have it. Give it to me.

Howard's eyes glanced down towards his pocket. Please. I will not ask again. The new Janet was utterly beveled when Howard pulled out the knife.

Her face went pale as he slid the weapon into my grip. What were you going to do with that? He was going to kill you. This has been a bit of a problem for him, you see. He's impulsive.

Reckless. He just can't stop himself. I've been trying to manage this part of him for a while now. It seems that I will have to do a better job in the future. Howard looked down at the floor,

like a puppy ashamed of making a mess. I'm sorry, but please give the knife back.

It would only take a second. She's already here.

The sound of his pleas was music to my ears. I'm afraid not darling.

“I think it's best that you learn your lesson.”

The woman in our bedroom was still in shock. But even in her frightened state, she instinctively made a move toward the door. Unfortunately for her, I was quick enough to block the exit. But I thought.

I'm sorry if I led you into thinking that I was letting you go. But things would look very bad for Howard if he were to say anything. I reached up and carefully grabbed the new Janet by her blonde hair. She struggled against my grip as I brought the knife to the side of her throat, and made an incision.

Her scream of pain was silenced as I pushed the blade to the other side of her neck. Causing blood to blow from the newly opened wound. Acting quickly, I dropped her to where I had positioned the rug on the floor. After a moment of unpleasant gurgling, I could tell she was no longer with us.

How did you know? I didn't even know until tonight. I pulled him into a hug, locking my hands around his shoulders. 12 years of marriage darling. The night was still young. So Howard and I had plenty of time to do.

While I felt sorry for my blueberry bushes, I knew they could be easily replaced. My garden was small, but once you dug deep enough, there's room for almost anything.

He was a one that had caught us into this nest to begin with, after all. We will have to replace the rug. I remarked as I admired the walls that kept our actions a secret. At least the sheets were spared this time. A bead of sweat trickled down Howard's long unkept hair,

as he buried the shovel into the earth. I wondered if it was caused by the stress of the night, or by his exertion. I'm sorry I lied to you, dear. I just wanted to... I want to see if... if I...

“If you could do it without me, you should already know that you can't.”

You're charming darling. But without me, our habits would have been found out years ago. I can understand your impulses, even if I do not share them. But don't you see how foolish it was to kill yet another one of your employees? You've established a pattern, and I'm sure that it hasn't gone unnoticed.

You're right. You're always right. I should have listened to you.

The words echoed through my ears, bringing a smile to my lips, a real one this time. You know darling, I've recently been contemplating the reason why I stay with you. Howard granted as he flung a load of dirt over his shoulder. Because you love me. No, that's not it.

I looked down at the supplanted remains of my blueberry bush.

“I think it's because I love hating you. I must admit this night was quite a thrill.”

You led danger straight through our front door, threatened the lives that we've built here, and you did it on a win.

You could have destroyed everything in a second of impulse, but I am here to fix it for you.

This is what I'm good at. What I enjoy. I couldn't have that if we hadn't found each other all those years ago. Will we have to move again? Did anyone know of your affair? No, no, I don't think so. Then perhaps not. We've gotten away with it before. We should be able to do so again.

A rush filled my body as I thought about the future. Of the delicious lengths that I might have to go to to maintain our image of innocent normalcy. Suddenly, the shovel struck something firm, and the two of us shared a knowing loop. Together, we shoved the rug into the hole, facing the body of the new chanet on top of the bones of the original. As Howard started to refill the grave, I wondered if replanting blueberries was worth it.

Our little peculiarities were bound to disrupt them again. But, after a moment of reflection, I decided a new crop was in order. After all, life must go on,

and I've always enjoyed a routine.

Let's take a short break for our sponsors, who help us keep our heads above water. For waves of ad-free horror content, join our sleepless universe by going to sleepless.com. Mother's Day is soon upon us, and when I lost my mom almost five years ago, it instilled in me the importance of keeping strong memories alive, remembering those times when she shared things that had a real impact on me.

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plus free shipping on orders over $50 and $30 in free gifts on qualifying orders, and folks don't forget to fill out the quick survey when you order to support this show. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. In our second tale, we follow a writer who's stuck, which is frustrating until it becomes something else. Because when you care enough about the work, you'll try just about anything to get past that wall.

Even if it means handing over a little control, and once you do that, it's not always clear where the idea ends, and you begin.

Reforming this tale written by Michael Fallon, our gran-rowit, Lindsay Russo, Ellaboon, and Wafia White. So if something tells you to just follow the prompt, you might want to be careful what you agree to, and unpropted. I'm blocked. My name is M.L. Hollowell, and I am a writer of horror fiction. M.L. Hollowell is not my first name, it's my pen name.

M.L. Hollowell's the writer, I think of him as a separate entity. Me, I am the observer, I am he does. I'm just a shrub, a small town guy. He rises above societal convention, conditioning, the anodine culture. He does what he wants, goes where I can't, won't, left to my own devices.

Not to mention my low-nose winger doesn't exactly roll off the town room. I write horror, I read horror, I watch horror movies.

“All I care about is horror, my life is horror.”

Don't give me a comedy, a drama, science fiction, historical fiction, nonfiction, biography for God's sake, give me horror. But I'm blocked, I don't know what else to call it. I know somebody or say there is no such thing, just sit down and write. Every day, and I do, and every day I hit a wall, a wall of shit. I don't mean to be coarse, but it's the truth.

I realize what I'm writing is dull, ill-conceived, hack-need-dreck. Done before, done better, I get pages in and then ax it.

All work can no play make Jack-a-doll boy, all work can no play make Jack-a-doll boy, all work.

That's a lot easier to do now that you can copy and paste. If only good old Jack-t had a computer, maybe things would have turned out differently. At least I'm not snowed in, not yet anyway. Should print that out and leave it for Mary Elf to find. It should come as no surprise that the author on whom my model myself is, the king of horror, Steven King.

“My life is in many ways a reflection of his, his early life anyway, before he hit the jackpot with Carrie, before the fame and fortune.”

Not that I'm in it for that, not it'd be nice, but he wrote Carrie before he was 30, so he's got me beat there. But it's not a race, it's not a competition. I, like King, live in a small town.

I married and have two children as did he, before he had the third one.

And for all I know we may have another on the way, who can say, I teach, in my case at the local high school, not writing more English but geography of all things, because they already have an English teacher, I know nothing about geography. I can't tell you what state borders this one. That's what online maps are for, which is what my students tell me all the time.

I believe family was in some ways the source of King's genius. They provided him stability, a tether to the real world, allowing him to turn out his rock-solid man of the people prose. His work connects, his writing is realistic.

“That might sound funny to say about an author whose books are populated by ancient vampires,”

telekinetic teenagers, deadly doppelgangers, killer cars, psychic serial killers.

But he crowns it all in the real world. At heart, his stories are about real people. Average, down to earth, run of the mill, Joe's and James, like you and me. I know there are a lot of extreme writers out there. The Edward Lees, Poppy Z. Brights, David J. Shows,

Esoteric, sinister, downbeat, love-craftian, Thomas Lagotti types, writing about some guy moping around a foreign city. That's just not who I am. I haven't even been to Europe. Actually, I'm taking a break from teaching to concentrate on my writing.

I've completed 400 pages of a novel. It's called "butt." B-U-T dot dot dot. Well, I may have to change it, as well as meaning is clear when the title is read. Every time I tell people what it's called, they get the wrong idea.

It's about a struggling writer who returns to his hometown after making a go of it in New York. That he's haunted by some mysterious event that occurred when he was living in the city. It's loosely based on my experience, though, of course.

“I don't have a sinister secret in my past.”

It's not autobiography. I had mixed feelings about making my protagonist a writer, but King does it all the time. The dark half, Salem's lot, the shining for Christ's sake. Maybe but will be my carry.

If I can get through this in-pass. Since I have now that everything I write is a joke that I'm a fraud, but I know what a good writer is, and I'm not it. And anybody who says otherwise doesn't know what they're talking about. Or they're just playcating me.

Joyce Carol Oates said the biggest enemy of writing is interruptions. And she manages to turn out a book every other week. I'm at my desk, or for my laptop to kitchen table. And I can imagine King doing the same thing when he was starting out. I can picture his wife and kids creeping around, trying not to disturb him,

because his job was to disturb others, right? Walking on eggshells while he banged away at the book which would change their lives. I thought exactly my experience. My dog King's wife and kids were swarming the kitchen when he was trying to write carry. If they had been there would be no carry.

I'm typing at my laptop next to which is an A5 notebook and watermelon fountain pen. I keep having to move everything because the girls are setting the table for dinner. Mary, all my wife, and I told you about her yet. It says, "Maybe you should take a break while we're preparing dinner."

What I'm writing, what you're reading, is precisely what's happening at this moment.

All I seem capable of recording is what's going on around me. Transcription. Mary, all is asking me to reach down the colander from on top of the cupboard. I'll put it up there if you can't reach it. I'm back.

My house is dark now, quiet, and still, blessedly. The only light is the desk lamp I plugged into an extension cord in place on the table next to me. It's hours later, of course. If you're wondering what happened earlier tonight when my wife asked me to get the colander, I stood suddenly.

The vinyl-backed metal chair tipped back and slammed to the floor. Everybody froze.

They looked shocked because I don't do that sort of thing.

Blow my top, except when I'm pushed to the edge.

“And what do they expect? Could anyone write a novel in the midst of that cacophony?”

Or even a measly short story? I got the colander because who else is going to do it? They're all too short. I slapped the colander on the counter. There you go.

It wasn't that loud. It's plastic. I grabbed up my laptop, notebook, and pen, and marched out of the kitchen. Though I dropped the pen, and then almost dropped the laptop, and I was picking up the pen. And I swear, Mario and the kids were standing stock still and gaping after me, like I just tore the kitchen apart. Jesus, like I met false.

Who is the more sin against? Who? Is it any wonder unlocked? Because on some level, they don't want me to make it. To become the next, whoever they want me stuck here, like this forever.

“Before we ate, I made an apology, but did they reciprocate?”

They did not. I explained that when Daddy is working, he needs quiet. He needs to concentrate. And my youngest Gabrielle, she's six, had the goal to say. But you're not our work, Daddy. You're a teacher. I kept my smile in place and explained that teaching is just my job, but my day job.

What's a day job? All right. Can we eat? We accept your apology. I kept my mouth shut, choosing to keep the peace. Though my wife seemed to think by the look on her face that I was serving the pasta to violently,

so I gently handed her the tongs and let her do it. I have a psychiatrist. Not a psychiatrist, a therapist. Mario insisted after I tore the cupboard door off its hinges while looking for my favorite cereal bowl. Because of my anger issues, I don't have anger issues.

I cupboard doors already loose. Dr. G can't prescribe meds, which is just as well. I don't want to punch down a pharmacological well and find I can't connect with my muse anymore. I don't have a muse. What's the opposite of muse?

I think Dr. G is just about giving up on me, though. Well, she does is listen to me complain about writer's block. Out of desperation, she said she had an idea. Prumps. She said you can get writing prompts all over the internet.

I know that, of course. I don't need somebody else giving me ideas. Or an AI, right? Well, she said it would just be an exercise. A way to prime the pump, of getting the juices flowing, of charging the batteries.

She loves metaphors. And I thought, why not? What is an idea anyway? It's nothing. It's next to nothing.

“Everybody has ideas. That's why they're free on the internet.”

It's all in the execution. So I dip my toe in. I'm pull-axed. There are prompts of every strike.

First lines, premises, plots, every genre.

And yes, horror.

150 terrifying horror ideas.

101 hair-raising horror prompts. Times offered by Coldron of Creepy. The graveyard of nefarious notions.

“It goes to show how poultry and inconsequential is the idea.”

Countless examples, and they add up to nothing, without the hand of the author. These multiferious prompts solely amines to kick the writer in the pants and indiguier. I'll take it from there.

I start with 666 nerve rattling horror story prompts. There aren't 666. I don't think.

But I'm not going to count them.

I scroll down. A Halloween haunted house turns out to be actually haunted. Okay. A group of college students spend spring break in an isolated cabin where a board game unleashes a demon.

Sure, if I want to write the screenplay for every other cheap horror film on Netflix, I scroll on.

“A group of miners unleash a vengeful spirit.”

Young partygoer is playing spend the bottle unleash a malignant ghost. A lot of unleashing here. A giant couple dined at a high-end restaurant only to find that they are on the menu. Seriously. Enough with a cannibalism already.

For a group of friends and escape room becomes an avatar. A little vague. At least nothing's unleashed. It's not going to work. This is what I say to Dr. G when next we meet online.

The prompts. Every ID involves a group of hapless numscoals summoning an evil spirit. It doesn't have to be horror. No. I'm a horror writer.

The point is to get you writing again. I am writing. I'm writing this down right now. This conversation. That's right.

That's not really writing.

“It's not very interesting. I'll give you that.”

She looks exasperated. I thought you wanted to use your imagination. Write fiction. This is fiction. Just give it a try, my love.

That's Mr. Hollowell. I close the screen on her perplexed face. It's three hours later and I'm sitting in the baleful glow of the computer screen. Search results are scrolling rapidly upward. I close my eyes and list my finger from the bottom and look to see where I am.

The cursor is directly pointing at random prompt generator. I click on it. The page takes a while the load with the servers in your away. And then a practically blank page appears. There's a rectangular box containing the words a random prompt generator in the center of a white background.

Underneath it is a smaller box outlining the word proceed. Proceed. Well, what the hell? I'm going to click this and whatever comes up, I will write. Write?

I click on the smaller box. The page stutters goes black. The small gear turns in the center of the screen. The screen goes white again. The wheel turns.

It's just taking forever. My finger hovers over the delete button. I'll give it. Oh, for crying out loud. In the rectangular box are now the words go too bad.

Is that a story idea? Underneath it is tiny type. I have to lean close to see it. He's touching my head back to peer through the lower part of my bifocals.

First person present tense.

So I'm going to do what it says.

Prompt number one. I turn off the kitchen light.

“I move through the house, checking the door locks.”

Savoring the quiet, the dark, and the quiet. For a few hours every night the house is luxuriously dark and quiet. I creep up the carpeted stairs, avoiding the fourth and seventh steps and their tell-tale creeks. I crack the door of the girl's room.

The light from the hallway casts a rectangle on the floor wall. But both girls sleep soundly. Veronica, the ten-year-old on her side, ear buds in, iPhone on the shelf next to her, screen lit up. Gabrielle on her back mouth open, storing lightly.

I pull shut the door and turn off the whole light. Inside our bedroom, Gabrielle is asleep on the near side of the bed. Mask over her eyes. In the glow from the TV, an episode of Law and Order SVU, the sound practically nothing.

“I gently plucked the remote from her grip.”

Circle to my side of the bed, dispense with my pants. I point the remote and kill the TV. She rolls onto her back with a groan. Half asleep, she grogally pushes up the mask and smiles sleepily. She pushes down the covers, and I see she's wearing an old concert tea.

The shirt too faded to make out the band logo. And nothing else. She lifts her arms and I. That's a good place to wrap up. I cut the last part, and you'll have to use your imagination.

I'm not E.L. James. I'm M.L. Hollowell. Now I'm back at work. Laptop, my A5 notebook and fountain pen at the ready. Earlier, my wife was busy getting ready to leave for the school.

She works there too. She's the dietitian. She couldn't have that last night? Of course. You don't remember? No.

You woke up? Did I? I don't remember. She shrugged. She was filling her Stanley thermos with coffee.

You know, I've been thinking. What's that? Oh, that's when an idea is go through my head. Okay, I don't have time. I was wondering if there's enough sex in my work.

She screwed the top on her thermos, distracted. Enough. How much is in there now? Not that much, I guess. Does your boy put a lot of sex in his books? No. Steven?

Well, I guess there was an orgy in it, but I never got that far.

In what? In it, in the novel it? Oh, right. I didn't read that one.

“Why do you all of a sudden want to write about sex?”

It's not all of a sudden. It's a subject I don't want to avoid, you know? Maybe too much horror doesn't engage in that part of life. Because it would mean writing for adults. What is that supposed to mean?

It's a joke. She's Louise. I could write about sex, so far I've just chosen not to. Okay. What does that mean? Do you have your doubts?

I don't know. I can write anything. I said, okay.

Mario has always been my biggest supporter.

I depend on her. She's my first reader. She's a reader for God's sake. How many of those are there now? I don't read nearly as much as she does. Too busy with my own stuff.

But I can't believe he said that. She pulled on her coat, needing to leave for work.

She still has to go to school.

But... I didn't say anything. You write what you want. You write what you know. My mouth dropped open.

And all I know about is monsters and murderers and other assorted juvenilia? No, my lo... I have to go. Don't call me that. What?

She stood staring at me. Confounded. The door half open.

And then she disappeared out the door.

So how do you like that?

“I've transcribed it so I can remember what she really thinks about me,”

about my ability. Sure, she said a lot of positive things about my talent in the past. And that's nice. But does she even really think of me as a writer? Or am I a school teacher with a hobby?

As somebody said, put your madness into your art and your sanity into your life. Or something like that. I'm trying to look at the actual coat, but all I get is stuff about writers being crazy.

Yeah, well, no shit. The fact is, my family is the one thing that keeps me sane. My wife, my kids, my job, my kids at school. It's like a warm embrace from inside of which I can reach out with my writing and unleash the beasts.

Sometimes the darkness gets so black and thick you can't get it all out. I'm going to back up into your life.

“That's why I keep a lid on my darkest impulses.”

There are lines I won't cross. Kids, for instance, children and jeopardy won't go there.

Even King Sheldt pet cemetery when he first wrote it.

Of course, the times change, and eventually he published it. Because now anything goes. Network TV, medical shows, police procedures, streaming series. Jesus.

Have you ever seen an autopsy where they're selling the top off somebody's head or dragging a dead snake out of a corpse's mouth? Do you know how many exploding heads I've seen on TV in the last few weeks? Too many to count.

How do you compete with that? How does a horror writer as somebody with words as their only weapon? Tool. Compete with that? By doing what they can't do on TV.

By getting inside your character's heads. What's scarier than that?

“Monsters, vampires, come on, a spooky nun, a creepy doll?”

Well, maybe that one. But the real terror resides in the endless subterranean hallways of our minds. Those dim, hushed echoing spaces where exist those things we tried to hide. Those half-seeing, working entities.

The scrambling leeches in the shadows. Whose eyes shine in firmly. And whose teeth rip with Ikor. That's going on the back cover of my short story collection. [Music]

Everyone else has retired for the evening. I'm scrolling prompts, checking out some other options. Even though I've left open the page window from last night, the random prompt generator. 54 fanciful phantasm for frightening fictions. Four fucks sake.

A newly divorced woman retreats to her late mother's farm where a haunted hay baler. Oh, what? Oh, boy. I return to the random prompt generator, pleased by its symmetry and simplicity. After this morning's dust up with Mario,

I'm even more stopped up. Once again, I resolved to do whatever the prompt commands. I click perceived. The screen goes through the same interminable generations as before, but finally yields,

walk to the school in the middle of the night. That seems a bit specific. The high school's a mere handful of blocks away. But it's not a bad idea. I could use a walk, get some exercise, take the air,

because they are starting to flow. I can feel it.

“I squint at the fine writing underneath.”

Second person, present tense.

Prompt number two. You walk down the center of Norwood Court To the right, on the south side of the street, are the two story colonials that lying the street. To the left, on the north side of the street,

is the broad grassy sports field that borders the high school. The damp grass is silvery in the light of the givis moon. The cold is sharp, racing. Scattered snowflakes drift aimlessly from the cloud-scaped sky.

You hum, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Most people have turned off their Christmas lights for the night, but a couple displays still blaze away.

“Even this light of night, well past the midnight hour,”

you are surprised to find people still awake. Every few houses, the strobing glow of the television emanates from a living room window. Sometimes somebody can be viewed sitting in an armchair, close to the set, bathed in the glow.

You deviate to the left, onto the field, toward the low-slung, ten brick, two-story building where you work. Used to work, would be more accurate. Your own hiatus, taking us about a call, a leave of absence, to work on your writing.

And also because you snatch the student's phone and flung it against the whiteboard, shattering it into multiple pieces. You had told her several times to put her phone away. There was shock after the phone exploded. And absolute silence.

The phone's owner burst into tears. She wailed from the depths of her soul,

“wrenching sobs like she was standing over the mangled body of her brother at the scene of a car crash.”

At that moment, you wanted to slap her so hard she went pinwheeling out of her seat, to knock sense into her. Some fucking perspective. Heidi, Jensen. God damn her.

But of course you didn't. Your reasonable man, a civilized man. You sat at the nurse and went on listing world capitals, stepping on crunching phone fragments as you worked at the board. The class wrapped.

Eventually, flowheaded orn came to the door and said, "Miss Carson needed to see you." And she would take over your class. You're on probation as they call it. But as you say, you're using this time to write. Water mists from the toes of your shoes as you cross the grounds.

And overhead bulb illumines the south doorway, bugs wailing around it. You mount the three steps and pierce through the door window. The locker-lined hallway stretches into the distance into a dense darkness beyond the light bulbs reach. The end of the hall is a wall of black.

For a second, it seems that someone suddenly materializes there.

Emerging out of the black, my asthma. But you're just freaking yourself out. You shut her and step back down the steps. You consider taking a brick from the pile of rubble in the corner of the parking lot and hurling it through the window.

But you choose not to. You walk home. I tell Dr. Ji on FaceTime that the prompts are helping. I've gotten you writing again. It's not horror, but it's something.

She's pleased, but still seems a little lary.

She would like to refer me to a psychiatrist, but as I've told her a million times,

I don't want drugs messing with my creative mind. Polluting the river of inspiration. Stephen King wasn't jacked up on substances when he started out. Not when he started out. Anyway, he's sober now.

I don't need drugs either. It's nighttime.

But the kids are all jazzed up about the Christmas concert there in tomorrow.

“Trying on their costumes and singing their parts in the festively appointed living room.”

Into the woods. I think they're playing trees. There's got to be some way I can get out of it. A whole morning of tiny talent. Three hours of screeching kitties and out-of-tune instruments.

I can't wait.

He's the only doing the first act.

Mario is frazzled because she has to help with the preparations. Hair, makeup, the costumes. There isn't much I can do, but offer moral support. It's a scene straight out of Norman Rockwell. Or if you could look through the window of a Thomas Kincade painting.

The festively adorned tree in the corner. Artificial, but I spits some pine-centred air freshener around the room.

“Carpenter's Christmas CD playing softly on repeat.”

It's no cascading down outside the windows. The warm crack-wing fire in the fireplace. On TV. We don't have a fireplace. And my loved ones.

My family. All of us together in the spirit of the season. But I am desperately awaiting the time when they all go to bed. So I can get back to work. I need to start God Dammit.

I hover the cursor over the proceed box. Unloose a long acceleration of breath and tap the mouse. The screen flicks from white to black and back again per usual. And then the gear spins and spins and spins and spins. It seems like it stuck that way.

And then it produces three words. Ah, yes. An admonition credited to William Faulkner. But apparently coined by some other guy, nobody's ever heard of. Kill your darling's.

Third person. Past tense. Okay. Prompt number three. I'm sitting here, asking myself, "What have I done?

What have I wrought?"

I mean, never before have I written anything like that.

I don't know if it's horror, but it's dark. I love dark. I am dark, but... I'm not damn the front door is wide open. VRB.

Enough. Unbelievable. This fucking place. The living room is a disaster area. Strong with construction paper, paint everywhere.

My feet are covered in glitter. I stubbed my toe on something. Turned out to be a claw hammer.

“You should see it caked with dark red paint,”

glistening like a candy apple with feathery golden strands stuck to it. A mess. I'm not too happy with this keyboard either. Keys are tacky. And now my hands are sticky, and my fingers keep sticking to the keys.

Gabby plays it writing, mimicking her dad. I've paced on her fingers. Or one of the girls spilled juice on it or something. I tell myself that when I find the perpetrator, I'll give the young lady a stern talking to.

But promise not to lose my top.

And to be honest, I'm having second thoughts about what I wrote.

Grave doubts. I think maybe I'm going to take another pass at it. It's just too grisly too awful. It went too far. I'm going to get rid of it and try again.

Highlight. Two X.

And cyanaram. Not that it was trash.

“By any means, it was pretty damn good for what it was.”

But across the line, a line I told myself I wouldn't cross.

So now it's gone. Like king putting pet cemetery in a drawer. But mine is gone forever. Delete it. Erase it.

It was a sacrifice, but it's for the best. Sometimes you do have to kill your darlings. Jesus, those sirens! To wake the dead! Finally!

Some peace. I want to thank you for spending some time with me tonight.

It's been great getting the chance to step into this hosting role

and share a little bit more of myself with you.

“And of course, thank you for supporting the nosy podcast”

for inviting us into your headphones, for sharing these stories and for being part of what's made this show what it is over the years. You know, it's a rare thing to be part of something that lasts this long and still feels as strong as it does. So here's to that.

And here's to whatever stories are still waiting out there. Just a little bit outside the edges of what we understand. My name is Mike Delgado. Thank you so much for listening. Until next time.

As our stories sink beneath the waves,

we claw our way back on to dry land. Join us again next time. When we plunge into the chilling depths where water hides its darkest secrets.

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